


Best Served Warm

by okapi



Series: Clothes Make the Woman [8]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Body Image, Bread Pudding, F/F, Fat Shaming, Feeding Kink, Fem!John - Freeform, Fem!Sherlock, Femslash, Fluff, Food Issues, Food Sex, Genderswap, Makeup Sex, Weight Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-23
Updated: 2014-03-23
Packaged: 2018-01-16 17:09:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1355176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fem!Sherlock and Fem!John fight and have make-up sex. A short featuring bread pudding and Sherlock in an apron.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Best Served Warm

**Author's Note:**

> Please heed the tags as warnings for possible triggers. This is essentially a make-up fic, but my Sherlock and John tend to go for the jugular when they fight.

_SLAM!_

“I’m going to kill you.”

“Highly unlikely,” said a voice from the sofa.

“Sherlock!”

“Hmm?”

“Why is the inside of the refrigerator purple?”

“Experiment.”

“How many times have I asked you to put a lid on your experiments? Especially when they’re in the fridge.”

“There _was_ a lid. It exploded. Unfortunate. The chemical characteristics of that particular cathinone derivative were quite interesting.”

“You put hallucinogenic bath salts in our fridge. And they exploded. Of course, you did. Is any of the food salvageable?”

“Ummm…”

“I’ll take that as a ‘no’. _Fuck!_ My bread pudding! _Shit!_ ”

“Your penchant for ridiculous desserts is childish, John.”

“It was a gift, Sherlock, from the grateful wife of a patient. I just got off a twelve-hour shift, and the only thing keeping me going for the last two hours was the thought of coming home, watching crap telly, eating my homemade bread pudding with a cuppa, in peace. And now it’s covered in purple slime, and we’ve got a biohazard site in the kitchen because you can’t seem to…”

“ _There was a lid!_ ”

“You know, you really are the most careless, selfish, myopic… Do you even think about the consequences of what you’re doing? Never mind!” John headed upstairs.

“Do you _really_ need the calories?”

John stopped. The silence was palpable. She turned and bore into Sherlock with flinty eyes.

“ _Did you just call me FAT?!_ ”

“John…”

“Because I think I distinctly heard a supermodel-sized ex-junkie, who has to be nagged to eat, call me fat.”

“John…”

“This body, no matter what its size or shape, has saved your arse—and fucked it—more times than I care to count.”

STOMP! STOMP! STOMP! STOMP!

The upstairs bedroom door closed.

_SLAM!_

So did the downstairs one.

_SLAM!_

John startled out of a deep sleep. A faint sweetness reached her nose, and she had the sensation of being watched.

“John?” said Sherlock.

“Hmm?”

John was on her side, facing away from the door.

“May I come in?”

John remembered the earlier exchange.

“No.”

Sherlock sighed.

“Nineteen and six.”

“What’s that?” asked John.

“The number of times you’ve saved my arse and fucked it, respectively. Unless you were using the latter phrase to indicate all types of penetrative sex and not just anal, in which case, the number is much larger, of course. Anal play is a quite minor part of our sexual repertoire, although …”

“Sherlock.”

“I am counting, John. I count important things.”

“Come in.”

John heard the wooden chair scrape against the floor.

“I adore your body.”

“You just wish there was less of me to adore.” John curled in a fetal position.

Sherlock inhaled and exhaled.

“Your shoulder [carried my sister up two flights of stairs](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1090654/chapters/2211001). Your breasts have the singular ability to [restore my sanity](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1231210) and destroy it. Your face [takes blows for me](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1276990/chapters/2795476). Your back takes blows _from_ me. Your tongue makes me beg, and your hands make me scream. Your eyes take aim, and your finger pulls the trigger in my defense. In your arms, I truly rest. I would not alter you, not the scars, not the size, not the shape.”

Tears welled in John’s eyes. She reached an arm back and flipped the duvet down. Sherlock spooned behind her. The scent of sugar and cinnamon wafted through the room.

“I’m so sorry for calling you selfish. You do think of me. Sometimes you spoil me rotten, with [pretty things ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1125896/chapters/2291744)and [luxuries](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1172886/chapters/2388979). Sometimes you use that mental prowess—that could be used in crime-solving or scientific experiments—in coaxing beautiful sensations from a body I had long considered broken. You let me in your bed, in your home, and in your life—this amazing life that I have to constantly remind myself is not a dream.”

John rolled over. Sherlock felt…strange. John reached and turned on the bedside lamp. Then, she sat half-up.

“What are you wearing, Sherlock?”

“Apron.”

And nothing else.

John laughed. “You were…?”

“Baking,” supplied Sherlock.

“In the nude?”

Sherlock pointed with her chin to a dish on the bedside table.

“Oh, _Sherlock!_ ”

Sherlock smiled.

“Wait, did you use…?”

Sherlock rolled her eyes.

“Alright, alright. Feed me.”

Sherlock’s face lit up. She lifted a spoonful of dessert to John’s mouth.

“Mmmm.” John slipped down the bed with her arms overhead, like a child on a slide. “Fuck me, that’s good.” She chewed with eyes closed.

John opened her eyes.

“More?” asked Sherlock with glee.

“God, yes,” answered John, propping herself up on her elbows and opening her mouth. Sherlock fed her another spoonful. John swallowed and fell back flat on the bed.

“ _Ugh!_ So good!” John wiggled. Sherlock fed her more, and John licked her lips and hummed. Sherlock looked at her. John wore a dark blue flannel long-sleeved pyjama top, buttoned to her neck, and matching pyjama bottoms.

“Harry’s Christmas present. You hadn’t even taken it out of the box,” said Sherlock as she traced the vertical and horizontal crease in the fabric with her finger. “I’m sorry for what I said,” she added quietly.

“Me too, love.” John reached up and cupped Sherlock’s jaw, pulling her in for a long, soft kiss. When Sherlock pulled away, she licked her lips.

“Hmmm. Not bad.”

“Can I persuade you to have some?” asked John, holding up a spoonful. Sherlock ducked away and shook her head. John put the spoon in her own mouth and pulled it out slowly. “No?” John pressed the spoon down on the spongy mass so that it filled with brown liquid. Then, she pulled up her top and turned the spoon over on her belly. A brown rivulet flowed to her navel, pooled, and then continued southward.

“You’re an evil woman, John Watson,” said Sherlock before she bent to lick the sauce from John’s skin. John unbuttoned her top and put a spoonful of dessert on the crest of one breast. It tumbled down her cleavage. Sherlock devoured it, licking the entire expanse of skin. Then, she rose to kiss John hard on the mouth.

“I taste the bourbon. What else is in the sauce?”

Sherlock fed John another bite, and then licked down her chest.

“Brown sugar.”

Lick.

“Butter.”

Lick.

“Cream.”

Sherlock engulfed John’s nipple with her mouth. John moaned.

“Feed me the rest, and you can pick _your_ dessert,” whispered John with a wicked grin.

When the plate and spoon clattered to the floor, John was kneeling, naked, on the bed with Sherlock’s head beneath her. Later, Sherlock was face-down with John tented over her, untying the apron strings at her neck and waist.

“[Sewing](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1276990/chapters/2698516)…baking…so very domestic.” John nuzzled Sherlock’s neck.

“But never domesticated,” growled Sherlock, turning.

“Never,” swore John. Sherlock pounced.

 

 

Later, Sherlock and John were shower-damp, laying perpendicular on Sherlock’s bed with Sherlock’s head resting on John’s belly. John wore a white cotton vest and underpants; Sherlock, a short black kimono. Sleep was beginning to overtake John.

“When I was very young, we had nice Sunday dinners. There’d always be something special for pudding—little cakes or confections. But, then, Dad got sacked, Mum got sick, and well, that was that.”

“There’s more. For breakfast,” said Sherlock.

John smiled. “Hmmm. Maybe I’ll make some coffee.”

Sherlock crawled up the bed. “The recipe said it could be eaten hot or cold, but I think it’s one of those things that’s…”

John tucked her head below Sherlock’s and closed her eyes.

“…best served warm.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this recipe](http://www.bettycrocker.com/recipes/bread-pudding-with-bourbon-sauce/642e35f8-3dab-47bd-9e58-533ede80b2c8) for bread pudding. All my stories take place in the same Alternate Universe, so Sherlock and John refer to things that happen in other stories as well as BBC canon.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
